My Angel
by Asharti
Summary: Isabeau is a powerful psychic mutant. After Professor X's death, she is second to no one in those powers. The problem is, she is untrained and cannot control her powers. Worse, she is Magneto's granddaughter. What will happen when she and Angel meet?
1. Chapter 1

My Angel

By Asharti

Disclaimer: I own not X-men in any way. I claim all rights to the character Isabeau.

Chapter One: In which Isabeau is introduced.

She stood staring out of the broad paned window of her grandfather's manor; her slender form was encased in unrelenting black, her pale heart-shaped face dry although wan. She watched Jameson, the family butler, stride back towards the large house that had become home to her in the months that she had come to live there with her elderly Grandpapa. He had not been an easy man to warm up to, his temper being cantankerous and reserved, but he had eventually grown used to smiling at her and sneaking a candy stick to her on the sly.

Jameson approached the girl from the double doors behind her, his step clipped on the dark walnut floors. The servant paused behind her as if unsure whether to interrupt her reverie or not. "Yes, Jameson," she enquired, her clear voice rang over the room reminiscent of her grandfather's strident tones. The sound relieved the servant who had been accustomed to such a tone from his employer for years. "Everything is packed and closed in Marsdale House. The car is waiting outside."

She clasped her hands behind her back briefly and gave a sharp nod. She had never been able to open up to anyone, but her grandfather, and even now she nearly hesitated as she asked, "Jameson, are you sure this special school is where Grandfather wanted the box sent to?" Her tone was as cool as it normally was and it was not open to sympathy. Straightening himself up with a snap, Jameson replied, "I am quite certain, my lady. It is what the master specified to his lawyer." He was, in fact, insulted by the implication that he was not positive about everything that went on in the house.

"My apologies, Jameson," her voice drifted over the room, although it wasn't soothing in the least, "Of course you are correct. I daresay you've never been wrong in your life." She turned sharply and exited the room through the double doors of inlaid mahogany, her sensible shoes tapping over the wooden flooring as she closed the manor doors decisively and slid into the backseat of the dark sedan. The chauffeur hurried to close her door and return to the driver's seat. The family was known for being impatient and payed a good deal for prompt service.

Isabeau Marsdale leaned back against the cushions of her seat, her expression weary from keeping up appearances. Her mien in the privacy of the car was exhausted and grief-stricken. She rubbed a hand over her brow to try to alleviate the headache she generally had after posturing for the servants. Luckily, Grandfather had insisted on a glass separation between the driver and passengers thus rendering the back of the car invisible to those outside or in the front of the car. Leaning into the lulling motions of the vehicle, Isabeau settled in for a long drive, her eyes drifting closed and sleep descending to carry her away on its wings.

"Grandpapa," she asked as she sat on the other side of the chessboard. He looked up, blue eyes softened in her presence as they had been ever since she had so trustingly smiled at him, beguiling his attention when she had juggled a small handful of metallic marbles for him. "Yes, my dear," his tone was gentle with her, his only descendant.

She asked a completely unexpected question which he was surprised to hear although he had never outwardly shown it. "Why do you wear a metal helmet? It has writing on it. What's it say?" He peered at her with eyes gone icy. "That is not a proper question, Isabeau. I will tell you when you are older and more able to understand."

But as the years had passed he still hadn't told her and now that he was gone forever she supposed she would never know what it was for. The car slowed and bumped through a pothole which jarred Isabeau awake. She peered through the window at the grungy streets beyond and frowned. 'This can't be right,' she thought to herself. 'The address was clearly in the upper crust part of the state, in the country.' Her finger hit the intercom button.

"Fredericks, I demand to know where we are." Only silence greeted her as she waited for five minutes then rolled down the black window. "Fredericks," her sentence broke off as she stared down the barrel of a gun. She looked from the gun to a smirking Jameson in the passenger seat. "Jameson, what the devil are you doing?"

Her tone was cross and cold; everything a disapproving employer's should be when addressing an errant servant. If she was shocked at the position she was in she certainly didn't show it. Jameson sneered at her from the front seat, "We're getting everything we deserve for putting up with your grand pappy and you for so long. We want whatever's in that box that's so precious that you had to deliver it yourself."

Her tone was dry as she told him, "Believe me, you won't want what's in the box, Jameson. It is a mere trifle and I can assure you that as long as I am alive I will make certain you never receive a penny more of my grandfather's money. You are both dismissed from my employ," she addressed both Fredericks and Jameson.

The sedan pulled to a stop outside of a small and squalid hotel and Jameson, still sneering at her said, "We'll be the judges of that, Princess," his manner rude to the extreme. The back door opened viciously and she was dragged out by an arm as Jameson hauled her at his side, pistol pressed to her side beneath his coat. As they were registering for a room on the top floor Isabeau addressed the innkeeper, a man as begrimed as his hotel appeared to be.

"Sir, I am Isabeau Marsdale and these men have kidnapped me. This one, Jameson has a gun. I wish for you to inform the police immediately." The innkeeper looked uncertainly from her to Jameson, then Fredericks, who was hefting the box she had packed so carefully. Jameson interrupted the rest of Isabeau's instructions with his harsh laughter. "My daughter-in-law," he explained, "She's a little bit off in the head. Thinks she's some sort of princess, she does. We've had to bring her back home at least a dozen times."

Assured, the innkeeper finished registering them, ignoring the rest of Isabeau's speech. 'Women,' he thought, 'could be the very devil.' He felt sorry for these two men who had to deal with one who thought she was royalty. 'I wouldn't mind having a piece of her though,' his thoughts carried on, 'Prime rump on her.'

As soon as they were cloistered firmly in their room, Jameson turned on Isabeau, backhanding her to the floor. "If you ever try anything like that again, I'll shoot you where you stand." Isabeau winced as she rose to her feet, touching a hand to her split lip gingerly, blue eyes, the echo of her grandfather's widened slightly, but otherwise icy. The men locked her in the bedroom as they opened the box. Glancing around swiftly, Isabeau located the fire escape and headed towards the window. She knew it was only a matter of time before they discovered her ruse and she had no intention of being around when they figured it out.

Working frantically at the nails that held the windowpane to the windowsill, she jumped as Jameson roared loudly, only one word distinguishable, "Bitch!" Knowing that she was out of time, she flung herself at the glass of the window in a desperate attempt. The sound of glass breaking hurried the men to unlocking the door. Spotting their quarry on the fire escape, Jameson ordered Fredericks to the ground below. He himself prepared to capture her from above.

Isabeau staggered down the fire escape towards the bottom, hindered by her bleeding hands which had sustained several cuts from the glass. She nearly froze when she noticed Fredericks climbing up the ladder. Glancing upwards, she spied Jameson only one flight of stairs away. Without hesitation she reached for the railing, prepared to hurl her body towards the nearest grip she could to make her escape.

Her hair yanked her back and a small whimper emitted from bruised lips as Jameson twisted her hair cruelly in his large fist. He drew her head back into an uncomfortable position and snarled in her ear, "Bitch. I don't care about your money now. I'll settle for a good fuck and then take great pleasure in wringing the life out of you. I fancy a princess as a slave." She fought against his hold with her remaining energy, horrified to realize that his erection was digging into her hip.

'Someone please help me,' her mind reached out as she had always promised Grandfather she would never do. Her eyes were glazed with pain as she felt herself weakening slowly. A dark voice interrupted, cold with fury, "You are disturbing my rest. I hate it when people disturb me. If you leave me the girl, I might forgive you."

Jameson sneered at the owner of the voice, his grip tightening in her naturally curling locks. "Piss off. Find your own woman." His face went ashen as a strong hand gripped and squeezed his throat, a fearful mask of a face, devilish in its beauty emerging into the sunlight. "But I want this one," the icy voice bored into the now very afraid servant. "It's your choice: Option A, leave the girl with me, or Option B. Which will you have?" Jameson studied the set expression before him and asked almost fearfully, "What's Option B?"

The golden man's voice was chilling in the extreme as he replied, "I make you." Jameson thought it over, but by the slight squeeze on his throat knew he had considered the question too long. He released Isabeau, "You're welcome to the bitch. She's too icy to give any man pleasure during a fuck."

Isabeau's form fell limply into the unseen man's arms and he cradled her in an oddly protective manner against his chest as he slammed the window down and drew the blinds. Isabeau was barely aware of being carried across the room and settled on the bed with extreme care. The wavering form of her savior appeared in her gaze as he stood by the foot of the bed, trench coat removed. His golden hair seemed almost as a halo, two large white wings sprouting from his shoulder blades and hovering protectively around his form. Blue eyes were imbued with a gentleness that seemed to fit his personality. "Angel," Isabeau rasped as her eyes slid shut, her consciousness switching off with the effectiveness of a light switch.


	2. Chapter 2

My Angel

By Asharti

Disclaimer: I do not own any rights to X-men. I do, however, own Isabeau Marsdale.

Chapter Two: In which Angel contemplates the rewards of saving Isabeau.

'Angel,' she had called him. Although many called him by that name, it somehow bothered him that this one did. How could she have mistaken him for an angel? Certainly she must know about mutants, after all, she was one, and a powerful one from what he could guess. He glanced towards the bed, taking in the classically etched heart-shaped features surrounded by golden-brown, tousled curls. It was she who was an angel, he thought almost reverently. He had gone white with fury when he had recognized Isabeau Marsdale being mauled outside his room's window. 'Who would dare to lift a hand to her beauty?'

He sat by the bed in an available chair, his hands resting lightly on the bedspread. He would keep watch over her for the night and send her safely on her way the next morning. A small smile drifted over his lips as he recalled their first meeting as children.

"Warren is such a little wimp. He'd never do anything to displease his father. I bet he won't even look twice at a girl and choose the one his daddy sets aside for him. He's a daddy's boy," Olivia Weatherington proclaimed. "What do you think," she finished her proclamation to the other girls at Warren's twelfth birthday party. A small voice erupted from the midst of the grouping. "I think Warren will marry whoever he wants. He's handsome."

Warren felt a blush spreading across his face as he peeked around the corner of the pillar to see Isabeau Marsdale with her hands on her hips. The seven-year-old seemed undaunted when Olivia retorted, "That gangly thing? He probably lays like a limp noodle in bed, unable to even get it up without help." This statement almost made Warren barrel out to confront her, but he paused his step when Isabeau's voice practically froze everyone in their tracks. "He'll grow into his size, besides everyone knows that boys such as he will be very well-endowed later in life. What would you know about limp noodles anyway? I hear that Derek Harding refused to kiss you under the mistletoe last Christmas and he tries to kiss every girl."

Olivia flushed red with fury and returned, "And who have you kissed, darling? Surely you've never had the experience before?" Isabeau laughed as she rounded the pillar and tugged on Warren's hand, bringing him into the group. The girls gasped as they saw who Isabeau had found. The seven-year-old tugged at his hand until he bent low. He expected her to whisper in his ear, but she pressed her lips against his firmly. "Well now, Warren kisses better than Derek Harding."

Olivia blanched with fury. Derek had been her future husband in her mind for the past three years. "He hasn't ever kissed you," she disavowed furiously. Isabeau just gave her an arch look that said, 'Oh really?' With a sneer, Olivia turned to the other girls. "Let's go girls. We have better things to do than hang about with a baby and a daddy's boy." The girls were only too happy to escape the site of embarrassment, they practically ran away.

"Isabeau, time to go," the rich voice of her father distracted the girl and she turned, her clear voice reaching towards her sire, "I'm coming, Papa." She turned, lifting her skirts to hurry towards her parents. A warm hand reached out to catch hers and she looked back along the connecting arm into Warren's eyes. "Thank you," he said, his voice squeaking. "It was my pleasure," her lips curved in a slow, but vibrant smile as he released her and she bounded gracefully towards her father, laughing as he swept her up into his arms.

Angel awoke to feel a soft, linen-covered hand on his cheek, only just realizing that he had fallen asleep. His darkly lashed eyes opened, their cerulean color glimmering as he took in his guest's visage, a soft smile curving her lips, though it must have pained her to smile so. "Angel," her rich soprano voice mesmerized him momentarily as did her gorgeous smile. He blinked, freeing his thoughts as a slight frown marred his expression. "I am not an angel."

"You have golden hair and light eyes. And you have wings. Beautiful white wings," she praised with an uplifted brow. "Many men have hair and eyes of my color and wings do not necessarily make one an angel." "But one could argue the question," she returned volley with the manner of one who always had the last word.

"You still like being right," he said to no one in particular. His comment was awarded a frown as she asked, "Do you know me?" He sighed audibly and raked a hand over his golden hair and darker stubble. "Of course I do, Isabeau. You always attended my birthday parties until your parents passed on."

Her face froze at the mention of her parents, her body stiffening on the bed as she searched his face for answers. He spoke again, his voice deep with the assurance of many years, "You used to follow me around like some devoted puppy, trailing me everywhere when you saw me." Isabeau's memory flashed to a long-ago party and finally recalled the features that had seemed so recognizable in the man as a boy. "Warren? Warren, is it really you?"

Clenching his jaw, Warren nodded, stunned by the sudden light that burst into her blue gaze. "I always wanted to visit you, but Grandfather wouldn't let me. He said I was too special to be about with people other than him. It's so good to see you again." She flung her arms about his neck, leaning into him. His wings flared out in surprise, shocking a gasp from her. He glanced into her eyes afraid of what he might see reflected in them. Women generally had two reactions: disgust or instant lust. But in her eyes, he saw only awe.

"Warren, your wings are beautiful." She reached out to stroke one, the movement sliding her breast against his chest. He shivered slightly in unforeseeable lust as her shapely body pressed against his. "Isabeau, don't," he managed to choke out. Her head tilted upwards, her blue eyes quizzical. The sight of her lips parted with awe at the softness of his wings, slammed another jolt of desire through him. "Damn it," he ground out, head lowering and lips taking hers with blinding need. She gasped, as his tongue surged powerfully into her mouth, his arms gathering her closer to his body as she belatedly realized their predicament. She knew in one shining instant of clarity that he was the man for her: the only man for her. Knowing this, allowed her to reach for him and bury her fingers into his short, silky strands.

Only moments later, as if fighting their attraction, Warren drew back. His forefinger drifted over her lips so softly she could almost imagine he had not touched them, "I am sorry. I should not have…I mean to say, you are hurt and I took advantage of you. I should not have, especially since you called for aid."

A dark brow rose gracefully above her left eye as she asked with a little confusion, "I called for help? I could not have. I didn't speak aloud." He studied her expression with a mixture of shock and bewilderment. "Do you mean to say…you don't know?"

His words slid to a jumbled halt as she asked, almost afraid to ask, "Don't know what?" He remained silent as one of those looks she had often found on her grandfather's face suffused his expression. Her mind probed tentatively, delicately as it always had with servants to get information, but it bumped abruptly into a strange wall. She sighed as she accepted that Warren must have some of the same qualities Grandfather had had. Feeling the soft invasion of Isabeau's mind, Angel blinked back into the present situation. "You didn't know that you are Mutant? It is quite clear. Anyone with that powerful a mind is Mutant." Isabeau's gem-like aquamarine gaze rested on his with an expression of utter ignorance, "I beg your pardon, but what is a Mutant? Is it some sort of disease or condition?"

"Good God, no," he answered with shock, "A Mutant is a human with extra powers. For you it is your powerful mind voice and manipulation techniques for me it is a very little of the mind voice and these wings. Were your parents as you are? It is only passed down through the male line." Isabeau shook her head slightly, golden-brown strands tickling the tops of her shoulders as she answered, "Grandpapa was, I think. He always told me that I was special. He used to float things across the room to me."

"He was telekinetic then?" Warren asked, "Not at all surprised that some relative was strong enough to do such since he had felt the magnitude of Isabeau's own powers, and that only a small portion. "Only with certain things," she replied. "He would wear a metal helmet and he only sent me objects such as spoons or scissors, whatever I needed at the moment."

Angel's eyes grew stormy as he tensed and leaned towards Isabeau. "Isabeau, the objects he could manipulate…were they all metal?" He waited in terse silence as she reviewed in her mind then finally answered hesitantly, as if unsure. "Yes. Yes, I believe they all were. He was very fond of metal. Especially the chess set he had whose men were made of metal. He said a 'dear friend' had given them to him."

Warren's form nearly froze into place as several thoughts spilled into his mind all at once. 'Magneto.' Dear God, he'd been kissing Magneto's granddaughter. And she was blissfully unaware of whom her grandfather had been and of just how great her power really was. The question was: Was she a danger to Xavier's school?


End file.
